


(There's) no smoke without fire

by Ark



Series: Idioms [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: First Time, Frottage, M/M, Mates, Oral Sex, Recreational Drug Use, Sex, Sex in the woods, Slash, Smoking, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-27
Updated: 2012-10-27
Packaged: 2017-11-17 04:35:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/547672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ark/pseuds/Ark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They kiss for entirely too long. If anyone found them in the woods just then they would be like, dudes, this is excessive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(There's) no smoke without fire

**Author's Note:**

> Tip of my hat to [this gifset](http://et-in-arkadia.tumblr.com/post/34246715528/colethewolf-sterek-au-ish-in-which-stiles-is) for inspiring Stiles's first view of Derek.

Stiles watches Derek rolling the joint in the corner of the party, Derek's blue-green eyes focused on the square of pink paper. The joint will be flavored like strawberry, Stiles thinks. 

Derek ignores the revelry around him, crushing up the green herb between his thumb and forefinger, sprinkling it over a length of tobacco. He twists it up neatly, tapping it down on a filter; then he palms the lot into his pocket and tosses back a sip of his beer. 

It's all done so nonchalantly Stiles might not have noticed if he hadn't been watching Derek. The party-goers buzz around them, making noise, hefting drinks. It's happy hormonal chaos.

But conveniently he's watching Derek over the rim of his red plastic cup, watches as Derek gets up and wends his way through the crowd. It parts to let him pass. Stiles scrambles after him with more difficulty. No one yields before him, but he dodges at the exit. 

The screen door bangs loudly on the porch. Derek is halfway down the deck stairs, and he turns to look at Stiles with a dark eyebrow raised. 

Stiles tries to make himself less made of elbows. He puts his busy hands in the pocket of his hoodie. 

“Hey,” Derek offers, inquisitive.

“Hey,” says Stiles. “I, uh, saw you roll, and thought -- maybe --”

For maybe a quarter of half a second, Stiles thinks Derek looks impressed. Then the emotion is buried under the standard steely Derek-mask. 

He says, the second eyebrow going up to join the first, “You smoke?” It's said with just a hint of arch. Not skeptical. Not quite. More like genuine curiosity.

Stiles swallows. In the sweatshirt's pockets his hands are bunched into fists. “Uh -- yeah. Pretty often.” It's confessed shortly. “It's better for my ADD than the pills are, honestly. Those things screw you up.”

He doesn't tell Derek who his supplier is -- a friendly sergeant at the police station he's known since he was seven, who used to bring his mom special brownies towards the end. It would take a long time to explain to Derek that the local law enforcement in Beacon Hills was as complicit about soft drugs as anyone else, and that his dad routinely turned his nose away from the smell of marijuana seeping under Stiles's doorway. 

Sheriff Stilinski had seen enough, and had attended enough Neil Young concerts, to be relaxed on the topic. Could he tell Derek that it was his dad who taught him how to roll?

“I'm good,” he tells Derek. Points self-referentially. “Stiles Stilinksi, stoner. I've got the next one.” 

Derek allows for slight surprise, but he nods, and waits on the steps for Stiles to join him. They go down together and start toward the woods. 

As the path slopes across the broad lawn, Derek produces the joint from his pocket and sparks the twisted end with a silver lighter. It catches, burning down brightly, and he takes a long drag. 

He inhales thoughtfully, puff-puff-pass, as smoking decorum required. Stiles accepts the joint from him, their fingers not quite connecting. 

Derek holds his second hit in a while, then breathes it out in a wisp, like he's swallowed it all up. It's an expert move, and Stiles wants to whistle appreciatively. 

Derek says, by way of explanation, “I lived with a guy in New York who grew. The harvests were abundant. Helped pay the rent. City's got a high cost of living.”

“Oh,” says Stiles sagely, putting Derek's joint to his lips. 

It's perfectly composed, long and wrapped tight with an assured hand, burning steadily. He pulls deep, proves himself by heroically not coughing.

Derek's rolled after the European fashion, including a pinch of tobacco, and that gets Stiles going almost as much as the drug. He usually doesn't like cigarettes, but it's the slightest hint to enhance the weed and draw the smoke out longer, and tonight he appreciates the effect. 

It's good, hits hard and well and dazzlingly, and he looks at Derek with new, appreciative eyes. If he'd known Derek was a stealth stoner they might have got along better before. He's found it to be a bonding activity in the past. They've already engaged in a longer conversation than usual, and there's been no shoving at all.

They're crossing well-manicured grass into the woods, and the fireflies are out, and behind them the house with the party in it is a noisy distant shape. It is blurry at the edges now, and they ignore it, pacing further away, their steps somewhat in rhythm as they crunch pale pebbles underfoot. 

Where the woods begin, Stiles stops. Derek pulls up beside him. He's like something from a '50s movie: tight white t-shirt, tight jeans, a fitted leather jacket across his shoulders. If his hair were greased Stiles would have to make a joke about the Fonz, but it isn't: Derek's hair, raven-dark, is falling untamed across his brow. The color of the stubble on his jaw matches it.

Stiles looks away for his second hit, focuses on drawing it out. He holds it in a while, then lets smoke slowly seep through his nose. Like a dragon might. Derek watches him do it. The smoke hints at strawberry.

They're at the divide between the tall trees and the tended lawn. A few paces forward and the boundary is crossed. Stiles tries to focus on the act of passing the still-burning wrapper back to Derek. Maintaining a lit cherry on a joint is as sure a sign of an expert as any, and Stiles is impressed. 

He finds it's not too hard to imagine Derek holed up in a crowded New York City apartment of people who might be growing herb. He can picture Derek amongst actors, musicians, painters who would want to paint him and videographers who would want him for illicit tapes. It's hard to know who Derek was, who Derek would have been, when his sister Laura was still alive, when he was living far away from here.

Derek takes back the joint, and his fingers brush Stiles's this time.

Stiles says, “So, your roommate grew, and you got super-great at this--”

Derek laughs. He actually laughs, rare and raw. It's too much like a bark. “Roommate,” he snorts. “I said I _lived_ with him, Stiles. My boyfriend of the time used to move about a pound a day, mostly to people we knew. Small-time stuff.” He takes a considerate hit, blowing out gray. He shrugs. “Everyone smokes in New York.”

“I didn't know you partook,” Derek goes on, restarting their stopped motion, so that they move again on the path and enter into the woods. Stiles is drawn along like Derek is a magnet. He wonders if his jaw has dropped as far as he thinks it has. He thinks it has. 

Derek is still talking. “We might've smoked before. The others are more into alcohol.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, vaguely, to everything. His mind is whirring. His mind is like a hampster in a wheel that has come loose and spun onto the Autobahn. His mind races and the wheel turns and the hamster starts chattering madly. All of this happens in his head while Derek has his second hit and keeps walking and talking like he hadn't just told Stiles that he'd once lived with a guy who was his _boyfriend_. 

Derek passes back the joint, and this time there's no mistaking it: his fingers linger on Stiles's in action. Derek is discussing dating dudes and touching him. 

Looming trees are around them now, eclipsing them from the sight of the house. The boughs and branches press close. Derek walks on once the exchange has been made. There's only a small sour hit to be taken now, but Stiles takes it, sucks it down. He lets out smoke. 

He lets himself consider if this were any other guy save Derek Hale. Followed purposefully out of a party, sharing intoxicants and frank tales of sexual adventure. 

If this were any other guy other than Derek, Stiles would be all over him. Stiles would have leaned in much closer at least. 

Because Stiles's body language is pretty much in _take me_ mode and has been for a while and Derek is mentioning his apparently flexible sexuality offhand, like it's no big deal, like this isn't the most words they've ever said outside of an emergency. 

Like he isn't looking back at Stiles the way he is.

His crushing crush on Derek is too big to be broached like this. At a normal party, with anyone else, Stiles might attempt to make out a little or at least make big, significant eyes. But Derek is -- Derek, and that doesn't help one bit. 

That he's had an _interest_ shall we say in Derek isn't exactly the world's best-kept secret. It isn't his fault that events kept throwing Derek into his path, even when he tries to avoid it. Especially then. He's stopped resisting the tug toward Derek, followed him out of the party with his heart in his throat, couldn't believe what he was seeing when Derek pulled weed and papers from his pocket. Because that was Stiles's thing. 

Stiles isn't wholly confident about many things, but he's very good at weed, weed he can handle. Weed is a thing to do with Derek. He'd never imagined other things could be viable. It's not that he thought Derek was totally straight, he'd hinted to the contrary before and did a good bit of universal staring and brooding at people, Stiles included, but Stiles's luck all his life has been unrequited emotions in the action-getting department. Having Derek as his person of interest seemed to naturally preclude Derek from ever showing interest. Those were the rules. 

He stubs out the remains of the joint, pockets the roach, and lengthens his step to catch up.

Derek indicates Stiles with a nod of his head. “So, you want to?”

“What?” says Stiles, nearly managing not to stumble on a protruding root. “I--”

“To roll us another,” says Derek, and why hadn't he just made it one whole sentence in the first place? 

“Right,” says Stiles. “Sure. Of course. Like I said I would.” 

He's stoned enough already but Derek's eyes aren't too red around the rims, are still their composite of green and blue. Maybe werewolves need a double dose, or maybe Derek is just a total stoner. He can work with either scenarios, both. There's a large flat rock twenty feet away and he indicates it with his chin. “You're about to see the master at work, just so you know.”

Derek looks amused as they pace towards the rock. Throws himself down on it into a smooth recline. 

Stiles sits nearby Indian-style, starting to unpack his own little pouch of weed and a packet of papers from the mess of items in his pocket. He balances a paper on his knee and starts mashing the hard little buds into smaller pieces between his thumb and forefinger. He crumbles it into a neat line on the paper, then, showing off more than a little, rolls it one-handed. 

It's worth it because Derek whistles low, and Stiles wishes he could do it again.

“Impressive,” Derek allows, practically almost smiling. They definitely need to smoke together more often. 

“Wait until you taste it,” Stiles says, and why the fuck is there so much blood rushing to his face? He waits for the flush to fade before lighting the joint. It catches well and flares a tiny orange light between them. Derek watches him smoke. Derek is watching his mouth. Okay, that's why.

Stiles breathes in the pure herb, puff-puff pass, then holds it out for Derek. This time, when Derek takes it, his palm settles over Stiles's fingers, and Derek's fingers kind of caress his own as they make the transfer. It's not an accidental brush. Can't be. Derek's fingers _caress_.

Derek's first hit is deep. Then he startles them both with a little choking cough -- tiny, but there, the cough born of smoke hitting just right. He exhales with more ease, but his expressive eyebrows are up, expression appreciative. “Holy shit. You weren't kidding. Where'd you get this stuff?”

“Ah, that will have to remain my little secret,” says Stiles, watching Derek's mouth filled with the smoke from his weed, which shouldn't be such a dirty thought or so sexy but is, most of his brain is filled with dirty, sexy thoughts about Derek when it isn't busy being afraid of him. “But we can smoke whenever you want. Man.” He adds the last to sound casual but doesn't.

“I'd like that.” Derek lifts the joint to his lips. “Man.”

He doesn't take the second hit because Stiles follows up with, “I'd like for you to kiss me.” 

Blurts it, rather. His heart is racing with a lot of good weed, the weird tension between him and Derek has become even weirder, and they're alone together in the woods in the dark, with only a sliver of silver moon for illumination. 

In the dark, Derek looks softer, all his strong lines shaded in like with the pencil Stiles would use to draw him naked if he could draw, as Derek had no doubt posed for his bohemian friends and boyfriends in New York and wow he is really fucking stoned and he'd just told Derek to go for it. 

Just willed Derek to go for it. Acknowledged that the thing between them that's been there a while is there. And it wants to make out.

“Good,” Derek says. 

He grinds the end of the joint against the rock, putting it out and into his pocket. He pushes himself up, flex of impossibly big biceps against the leather of his jacket, and then he's kneeling in front of Stiles.

His body is hot and huge and settles there like a movable furnace. He raises his hands to frame Stiles's face. Draws him up, so that Stiles feels himself unfolding, getting to his knees too, tilting back on his heels with Derek's fingers on him. 

One of Derek's hands slides, goes back behind his neck, angles him closer, and then the fingers on his cheek are turning him to meet Derek just right and then Derek is kissing him. 

Derek kissing him is happening. It's totally happening. The flare of pressure on his lips and the fire in his belly is from Derek leaning in to kiss him. Kissing Stiles.

He's high but not hallucinating and Derek is kissing him.

It's soft at first. It surprises Stiles by being soft. Derek's trying it out, doing the chick-flick kiss: brush of lips, then a retreat to check Stiles's expression and look him in the eyes, then back down again for another kiss. 

This one's deeper, rougher, like he thought Derek would be. When he thinks about it. Which is a lot. 

Doesn't need to imagine anymore because Derek is locking into him, deepening the kiss. His eyes are open, so Stiles keeps his open too, glad of the excuse because he doesn't want to miss any of this. 

On TV people always close their eyes while kissing but they don't do it and it's craziest, sexiest thing that Stiles has ever experienced, Derek's water-color eyes on him as his lips move on him, as he draws down on Stiles's lower lip with his teeth. He releases it, Stiles would like to think, somewhat reluctantly. 

Then Derek's mouth is saying, “Like that, Stiles?”

He doesn't flail. Don't flail, man. Don't ruin this. That was just your first kiss -- kisses -- and that was Derek Hale who did it and it was perfect, and oh my god he isn't running away, or looking angry, he looks like he wants to -- oh, my god --

Stiles licks his lips. It's a reflex but Derek's eyebrows shoot up, and he makes a sound that's low like a rumble in his throat, and his fingers tighten at the nape of Stiles's neck. His fingernails are sharp. 

Stiles gets goosebumps of the best kind and says, “Like that. Only maybe with more tongue next time? I'd like to think I can handle a little t--”

Derek yanks him up and in, crushing his mouth against Stiles's, sucking out his breath and the last of his words like taking in a hit of smoke. Then he's slipping his tongue against Stiles's tongue, darting over the edges of his teeth. 

Stiles doesn't have any style in this but he has enthusiasm, and he responds in kind, pushing his tongue between Derek's lips to find him when he retreats, putting hands that have stopped twitching in reaction onto Derek like he's wanted. One skids across his chest, closes over a big upper arm appreciatively. The other hand mimics Derek's, threads fingers into Derek's short dark hair and holds to the back of his neck for dear life.

They kiss for entirely too long. If anyone found them in the woods just then they would be like, dudes, this is excessive. Some people had been dry-humping at the party but no one really kissed for this long. They take air in through their noses and in little gasping side-breaths when they pause a second or two panting before they keep on kissing. 

Maybe it feels better than it has any right to feel because he's stoned and he's heard that sex while stoned is fantastic but either way it feels better than it has any right to so Stiles doesn't stop and Derek doesn't. 

And did he just think _sex while stoned_ when he's in the middle of his third kiss ever, even if his third kiss has gone on a good fifteen minutes and there's no denying whatsoever that both of them are hard, because they're kind of rubbing against each other now? And Derek's hand isn't on his neck anymore, it's gripping his hip, and Derek is not being shy about using his magnificent body _at all_?

At the twenty-minute mark, Stiles makes himself pull back. He immediately regrets the decision, but Derek cants his head, then his mouth away, the fine lines of his face questioning. His lips are red and flushed from Stiles kissing him -- Stiles! -- and all he wants to do is start again. But his boldness worked once, so he'll try again. “I think there are other things I'd like.”

“Oh, yeah?” This is definitely the way to take Derek on. Show fear or doubt and he'll be gone. But Stiles (somewhat) confident and equally interested, not letting the (self) doubt he feels show through -- this intrigues Derek, keeps him there, keeps him from running. 

All of a sudden Stiles knows that Derek has been waiting for him to be this way. To display himself like this. To follow Derek out of a party and into the woods. 

“Holy shit.” Stiles shoves at Derek's shoulder but knows that he's grinning while he does it. “Did you _lure_ me out here by rolling my drug of choice directly in my sight, Derek Hale? What were you doing at Danny's party anyway?” These are questions he hadn't considered, since the thrill and the catch in the back of his throat whenever he saw Derek had distracted him.

Derek shrugs. “The party? Isaac invited me.” Then he looks innocent. _Innocent._ “The world may never know.”

“Holy shit, you _did_ do it on purpose! Why didn't you just talk to me, you alpha creeper, if you were interested? You could _smell_ that I was! But no, you gotta use sneaky spy tactics. Set me up. This was entrapment!” He has a hand fisted in Derek's shirt and shakes it. He mimics Derek's voice pitch-perfectly. “'So, you want to?' My god, dude, I should expel you from my rock--No more rock privileges for Derek--” 

but Derek is kissing him again, and Stiles forgets what he was saying, even though he knows it's significant and topical.

Then it doesn't matter because Derek is saying, rougher than his kisses are rough, “Yeah. Yeah, I did it. Didn't take a master plan, just being what I am. You smell like weed a lot. And I smoke myself. Wasn't a lie. Just wanted to get the chance to--” He tightens his lips, and it's too grim a line. “I don't know.”

“I know,” says Stiles. He's been waiting to see if it were true for a while. If it could possibly be true. No more waiting, then: “And I know why we're like this.”

Derek looks like Stiles has struck him, and also like he had when Stiles pushed his tongue into his mouth. “You...?”

“Yeah. Me. Stiles Stilinski. Bonjour. I like to read, Derek, and I read a _lot_. Sometimes it even cuts into my porn-watching.” Derek narrows his eyes, then blinks them, so Stiles rushes on: “My best friend became a supernatural creature, and I learned everything I could about said creatures. Way too much, actually. Way, way too much. Because I also started feeling fuzzy feelings for a guy who mostly looks at me like he wants to eat me when he isn't looking like he wants to fuck me. To _death_. You think I'm not going to read up on why that could be the case?”

“Stiles. Shush. You don't know what you're--” Derek is actually _blushing_ , and it's so glorious that Stiles absolutely does not shush.

In fact, he raises his voice. “Make me.” He jabs an accusing finger at Derek's chest, which doesn't budge or give. At all. Then he says it. “You've probably known we were mates for _ages_ , haven't you? You son of a bitch, you _have._ Wolves generally know. While us clueless humans are left wondering why we we're _pining after moody assholes_.” He's getting angrier the more he thinks about it, his tone scaling up, his hand still fisted in Derek's shirt collar while Derek just stares back. 

He's reverted back to standard-issue Derek-mask and not for the first time does Stiles wish it could be physically torn off of him. “Then what? Had a lonelier night than usual? Thought to yourself _well I guess there's always my_ mate, _who's bound to me for all _time,_ why not try _ him?”

To his surprise, Derek doesn't flinch from the anger, the accusation. Derek's eyes are round. “Say it again,” he says, instead of answering. Then he says “Stiles. Please.” Stiles knows what. And Derek said “please.” Okay. Well. Damn it all to hell. Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb --

“We're mates.” Stiles swallows it down. “And you _knew_ , Derek--”

Derek nods. Then he shakes his head. He's confusing like that. “Had to be sure.” His hand is still resting on Stiles's hip, and then he's tightening his grip. “Didn't believe it, at first. It's so rare.”

He shifts his gaze sideways, like he's seeing something far-off. “My mother used to tell me stories. The signs to look for.” Derek's strength is considerable, and he's towing Stiles closer, Stiles drawn entirely into his orbit. “I thought they were fairytales.”

Stiles stops being angry. He's better at stopping than being angry, and bursts of it never really last for long, burn out fast in him. Derek's expression and the strange vulnerability in the set of his shoulders as he reaches for Stiles is much more interesting. 

Derek lets himself hold onto Stiles, and Stiles lets himself relax. He thinks it might be their best dynamic.

“Tell me,” Stiles tells Derek's collarbone, then the crook of Derek's neck, where he touches his lips. He finds Derek's pulse-point, the testament to his heart under his skin, and makes it race with a swipe of his tongue. That proves effective, so he does it again.

Slowly, Derek's arm runs down his spine before tucking in at his lower back. “Four A's,” he says. “Attraction. Attachment. Awareness.” He sniffs the air, curls his lip around the last. “Adoration.”

“Aw--”

“Shut up, Stiles, you're in this too, you know.” But he can't help preening as Derek goes on. “Profound sexual attraction--”

“Aw, _yeah_ \--”

“Stiles. Shut. _Up._ Attraction to the point of precluding others and an intense need to mate.”

“Dude--” How is he supposed to take this quietly?

“ _Stiles._ Do I need to actually shut you up? You asked. This is important. Attachment: the instinct to protect and defend the other at all cost to life and personal safety.”

“Yeah, you're pretty much the master of tha--”

“For the love of everything.” Derek kisses him fiercely, messily, then with a lot of teeth, ow, but wow, Derek crowds into Stiles's mouth with his tongue, shuts him up. That goes on a while, until Derek pulls back, looking satisfied, and Stiles looks back at him with his jaw dropped and his lips kiss-stung. 

Derek lifts a finger and closes his mouth for him. Then he says, “Awareness. Knowing the other person's around, being bound to them even when they aren't.” He inclines his head, somewhat at a loss for description. “It's more a feeling in the gut.”

“Right,” Stiles agrees. “But mostly lower.” That's when Derek gives up making him quiet, and starts to push him back against the rock. 

They bend slowly at first, then faster, like a felled tree snapping. Then Stiles is on his back and Derek is over him, Derek's body bound with muscle and hard everywhere -- everywhere -- and covering him up. 

“Adoration,” he realizes Derek is murmuring. Stiles is dazed from their fall. They're reversed now and Derek has his teeth at Stiles's neck, and Derek's teeth are sharp and pointy but his tongue is soft. Tasting. “Fucking -- obsession -- you smell -- Stiles -- if you knew --” 

“I know,” says Stiles. “I'm in it too, man.” This time, he kisses Derek.

He kisses Derek the way he's been thinking about doing it since Derek came back to town. It'd been weird, thinking about it, then, since Derek was supposed to be the bad guy. But, well, he'd been a really hot bad guy, definitely kissable in that Lex Luthor kind of way, Stiles had decided. Then Derek had slowly become, well, a friend, and something else, too, something that was pack, that was the pack Derek had made of Beacon Hills' lost souls. Then it had seemed okay, if still slightly weird, for Stiles to have the all-encompassing crush he did. 

But then it wouldn't go away. And he stopped looking at anyone else, and looking out for Derek. 

When it didn't go away, when it intensified and he and Derek acted strangely around each other -- saved each others' lives, stared and glared and circled, stole glances from the corners of their eyes -- when Stiles had dreams about Derek that ended with come-slick sheets, when he woke up gasping about him -- he'd done what he did best and done his research. 

He read and recognized what they could be. Shouldn't give Derek too much shit, because Stiles didn't quite believe it either. Mates may as well be fairytales for most werewolves: Derek was right, the statistics of discovery were impossibly slight, and they were young. Pairing with a human was even more out of the ordinary. 

But Derek has described Stiles's own affliction aloud. Derek has confirmed he isn't crazy, or that maybe they're going crazy together. So Stiles kisses Derek the way he's wanted to. 

He's imagined them like this, it seems right, Derek on top of him, settled over Stiles with his weight balanced on his forearms. Stiles slips his fingers into Derek's hair, looses his long, tricky, clever fingers in the black, lets them do their thing. He curls his hands in Derek's hair, grips tight, drags him in. 

Derek's mouth is hot and open, comes down hard as Stiles tugs. Stiles traces Derek's lip with his tongue, draws a line, then licks into Derek's mouth. Derek's small, surprised groan travels down his spine and makes Stiles grind his hips up in sympathy. But Stiles keeps on kissing Derek like he'd wanted to, unlocking Derek's mouth with his own, letting Derek speak without speaking, the way he prefers. 

They keep their eyes open. Stiles forgets which number kiss this is, but it's his favorite. 

He reaches for Derek's belt, knows somehow that Derek needs for him to be the first to do it. Still, Derek slants a look, takes his mouth politely away, tries to look vaguely proper. Like he isn't on top of Stiles on a rock in the forest. And rock-hard. Derek says, “Here? We could--”

“Go back to your place? No thanks. Mine? I don't think so. The rock is a fine option. Consider the rock.”

Derek shakes his head, but the hint of a smile is threatening, and he raises himself up a little higher at Stiles's urging. Stiles undoes Derek's belt and manages the zipper, trying to stay cool about it, only he can't really stay cool because he's about to touch the cock he's tied to for eternity and that's a pretty momentous occasion in a young man's life and what if it's -- 

Okay, fuck, what if it's fucking enormous, just way too big, and there's no way he's ever going to be able to let Derek fuck him the way they're always talking about with their eyes. What if it's huge in his hand but feels so good, silky-smooth above the harder flesh, fits into his grip immediately, familiar, like he's done this a thousand times before. 

What if Derek bites him nearly hard enough to break the skin when Stiles takes hold of what's his.

Derek _shudders_. Says, “Stiles--”

“Present. You're--Derek, wow--” And he actually gets another blush on those high-boned cheeks. He's going to start counting them. Collecting.

“Moving fast,” Derek says, but he doesn't stop moving against Stiles, rocking, seeking friction.

Stiles tsks. “Slow enough. If you'd _told_ me months ago that we were mates, we'd definitely be doing it somewhere super-comfortable right now, not on a rock getting stung by mosquitoes and other bloodsucking things. Do you know how long it's going to take to get me used to your ridiculous cock? Did you think about that?”

What Derek thinks is a sort of strangled sound, and he thrusts into Stiles's stroke. Then he's flicking the buttons on Stiles's jeans, pushing them down, freeing Stiles's cock from his boxers. Stiles's cock doesn't have anything on Derek's but he's always liked it just fine -- long, well-made, standing proud from a base of pale hair that travels up his belly. Derek reaches for him immediately, and Stiles brings his hand holding Derek's cock close at the same time, and they collide, skin to skin, both too hard, both already leaking in expectation.

Derek palms them both, the wide span of his fingers can do it, but Stiles holds on too, arching into the feel of them sliding and aligning and building up a rhythm. It feels so good, shouldn't be so good. Just to be enclosed in someone else's grip would have been enough to get him off faster than ever, but seeing as how it's Derek's, and Derek's thick cock is against his while their hands work together -- he starts to thrust against Derek too, to shove back helplessly on his covering weight, watching Derek watch him. They rock and push and pull as one. They're rock and roll.

“Derek.” He's panting, dazed against the unforgiving surface as his head tosses a bit too exuberantly with their motion. Stiles says “faster” and “there” and “yes, yes, _yes_ ” and “like that,” and “Oh god, Derek, I'm going to--” and he does it, he comes hot and fast and hard between their bodies, where their skin meets like they can be sealed together at the navel if they keep trying. 

Derek rides the wave of Stiles's body, even the thrashing parts, watches the way Stiles's face changes; speeds his hand on their pressing cocks while Stiles's spurts. Then Derek comes with him, comes on him, alongside him, eyes snapped to Stiles's face, mouth caught on a breathless groan. He buries his nose in the dip of Stiles's neck and says his name. His _name_. Derek, coming, says “Stiles.” 

It's absolutely mind-blowing, but after months and many groping minutes of preamble, they've lasted all of a hundred forty-three seconds. Give or take. Not like Stiles was counting. Now there's sticky come everywhere, and he's pretty sure his vintage Nirvana t-shirt isn't going to forget this. 

Stiles is nevertheless enthused. “That was awesome,” he assures Derek, who's examining the mess of them and is looking a little abashed. “Honestly always worried if I'd be able to come with someone else, thought I'd be too nervous, clumsy--” he's drawing Derek back to the surface with the run of his mouth, which he's good at. Which is maybe part of his purpose.

Derek's twists half a grin, half a grimace. “I don't usually--”

“Come like teenager? Well, you're fucking one now, so get used to it, mister.” Stiles lets his eyebrows drift up. “You're fucking _mated_ to one. What was that again? 'Profound sexual attraction'--”

“Stiles, your _mouth_ ,” says Derek, which yeah, that pretty much confirms his point, because now Derek is grinning full on, and that's almost as awesome to see as Derek coming, driving against him with his cock hard and slick as velvet against Stiles's cock, Derek's face shifting and revealing and pushing into Stiles's neck as he came.

“You love it.” Stiles stretches, reaching for nonchalant, and Derek at least doesn't protest. Derek is too busy -- Derek is, oh Jesus Christ, what is he -- oh. Derek is cleaning Stiles off with his tongue, Derek's red lips in a supporting role. Derek licks him clean of their mingled come. Takes his time about it, while Stiles loses his mind.

“You love it,” Derek returns, laughing, against Stiles's cock, which is already interested again. Derek's laughing, and licking him, and yup, Stiles must've lost it somewhere back there in the woods. Maybe he's actually really, really stoned, sitting in a ditch. Maybe he fell and knocked his head and never made it out of the party.

He suggests this aloud, and Derek rakes helpful fingernails from his collarbone to his abs, and yeah, wow, Derek's really there. That's definitely Derek's warm breath on his cock, Derek's tongue darting out to taste him. 

And yes, holy fuck shit, that's Derek's mouth taking him in and down, swallowing him only long enough to get every last drop of come. Once that's accomplished, he moves on to a pearly spot on Stiles's inner thigh like that was no big deal. Which it was. A big deal. A spectacularly big deal. Stiles knows because it happens to him and it makes him moan very, very loudly. 

Derek looks up. “Oh,” he says. Just that: oh. But his eyes say the full sentence: _Oh, is that what you like, Stiles?_ and then, goddamn his color-changing eyes: _I like it too._

Then he smirks. Then, still looking up, he moves and sucks the head of Stiles's cock between his lips, rounding lips over teeth as he bends to take more. He swallows Stiles, this time more deliberately, taking the head of his swollen, swelling cock into the wet pocket of his cheek. Holds him like that a space, tongue flicking.

Stiles kicks a leg, curls a hand around the back of Derek's neck, tries to keep still, is bad at that. Derek doesn't stop looking at him as he works and tongues along his length, and then somehow he opens up his throat and has most of Stiles stretching his lips and to the back of his throat. Derek's hand pumps at the base of his cock, and ghosts across his balls, and beneath them. After a moment's hesitation Derek's thumb circles carefully but firmly around his hole. Stiles makes himself lie quietly but he _quivers_ all over and, okay, yeah, that. That.

“Derek--” It's suggestive. More than that. Pornographic.

Derek draws his mouth from Stiles's cock with a sound that's obscene, but his eyebrows are set already, stubborn. “Not yet, Stiles.” His tongue must be violating international sanctions. “We'll wait a little while. Get you ready for me. You'll like that, won't you?” 

And he takes Stiles back into his mouth, not waiting for an answer, pulls the answer out of him with hollowed cheeks over those extraordinary cheekbones. 

Derek won't fuck him. Not there on their rock. Maybe not tonight. But soon. It's gonna be soon. It's gotta be soon. And Derek is showing him what a blowjob really is, with Stiles a writhing thing, his hands everywhere, his mouth voicing compliments and encouragements and running commentary. Derek anchors him in place and sucks him dry and licks him clean again. Stiles is not complaining. 

After, when they sit side-by-side, pulling soiled clothing into place, Stiles is almost afraid that it's going to be weird again. Derek's brood is on in his shoulders. But Derek surprises and delights by pulling the half-finished joint from his pocket and sparking it. Like he understands that Stiles likes to smoke after orgasm. Like he can sense it'll smooth them over, make their walk back through the woods and to the jeep where they'll no doubt engage in further sexytimes even more enjoyable. 

He offers it to Stiles first, and he reaches for it happily. “I could totally love you, you know.”

Derek hands it over. Their fingers touch. “I know,” Derek says. 

That's how they say it first.


End file.
